The Secret Journals of Sherlock Holmes (A&B Crime)

by Thomson, June

  Here I waited for two or three moments in order to recover my breath and get my bearings.

  Ahead of me and a little to the left, I could see the dark bulk of Ivy House looming against the night sky, its squat turrets giving it the grim outline of a mediaeval fortress.

  Not a light showed in its façade and not a sound broke the silence.

  Nevertheless, I made my way cautiously to the stable block behind the main building, its position marked by a square clock tower. As I entered the yard, I saw in the starlight that the gilded hands showed a few minutes before two o’clock. According to Holmes’ schedule, I was a little late, but his plan was almost accomplished and there was not much more left for me to do.

  The rope for the alarm hung below this clock tower, running up through a series of iron staples fixed to the wall into the belfry where it was connected to a separate bell. As Holmes had instructed me, I tugged vigorously on this rope twice before waiting a few seconds and then repeating the signal three more times.

  Above me in the darkness, the sonorous double peals rang out, shattering the silence with their clamour. Then, without waiting to see their effect, I hastened out of the yard and along the side of the building to the front garden, where I concealed myself behind a tree which Holmes had pointed out to me the previous day as a convenient hiding-place. From this vantage point, I was able to keep the front of the nursing-home under observation.

  Lights had already sprung up in some of the windows and I thought I heard the far-off sound of voices calling out, although this may have been mere fancy on my part.

  But there was no mistaking the sound of a sash being softly raised and, abandoning my place of concealment, I sprinted towards the house where Holmes was standing at one of the ground-floor windows, waiting to help me over the sill into the room beyond.

  ‘Well done, Watson!’ he whispered, his voice jubilant. ‘And now the lantern!’

  I handed it to him and there was the sudden flare of a match in the darkness before the flame faded to a steady cone of yellow light. Its glow illuminated the tall, thin figure of Holmes, clad in dressing-gown and slippers, moving purposefully towards the bureau which I had glimpsed through the open doorway of Mrs Rawley’s room on my initial visit to the nursing-home, the bunch of picklocks ready in his hand.

  While I held the lantern, Holmes first opened the bureau, the lock of which yielded easily, but the large black cash-box which he extracted from an inner compartment proved more stubborn and I heard him give a low exclamation of impatience as he probed delicately at the keyhole with one of the thin metal rods.

  Meanwhile, I could hear the sound of footsteps hurrying past in the hall and the voice of Dr Ross Coombes calling for the lamps to be lit.

  Holmes, however, is an expert10 and eventually the lock of the cash-box gave way under his skilful fingers. Raising the lid, he took out a bundle of papers which he thrust quickly into his dressing-gown pocket before relocking the box and replacing it in the bureau, which he also secured.

  ‘It is time we left, Watson,’ said he, extinguishing the light and leading the way towards the open window. As I climbed out, he added, ‘I am relying on you to put the last part of our plan into action later this morning, as we have agreed. Now go at once, my dear fellow. Good night and good luck to you.’

  The next instant, the sash was lowered, the catch fastened and the curtain drawn across the window. But a small gap remained and I must confess that, instead of leaving immediately, I could not resist watching with one eye to this gap for Holmes to make his own escape from the room, my mouth dry with apprehension lest, at this last moment, he should be discovered.

  He behaved with characteristic coolness, walking casually to the door which he opened a few inches, revealing the lighted hall beyond. Then, having listened intently for a few seconds, his whole body alert, he slipped silently from the room and the door closed behind him.

  As soon as he had gone, I took my own departure, returning to the inn by the same route which I had followed earlier. Once I had gained the safety of my room, I undressed and lay down upon the bed. But, though tired from the night’s adventure, I could not sleep and my thoughts turned again and again to those events which were still to come and which, I fervently hoped, would bring about the conclusion to the case and the solution to the mystery of Hal Warburton’s madness.

  IV

  Compared to the activities of the night before, my instructions for the following morning were relatively simple to carry out.

  As soon as I had breakfasted, I hired the landlord’s gig and set out for Guildford to call on Inspector Davidson of the Surrey County Constabulary.

  Holmes had spoken of him as an intelligent and energetic officer, a description which was accurate as I discovered when I was shown into his office and noticed for myself his alert expression and firm handshake.

  However, although he was expecting me, Holmes having taken the precaution of calling on him during his initial enquiries into Ivy House and its occupants, he seemed as much in the dark as I over the precise nature of the investigation.

  ‘All I know is the case could involve the most serious allegations,’ Davidson told me. ‘If it wasn’t for the fact that Mr Holmes himself came to see me about it, I would hesitate to take it on. But, being a keen admirer of his methods, I am prepared to go along with his request and accompany you to Ivy House, although I would feel a good deal easier in my mind if I knew exactly what evidence Mr Holmes has discovered and what charges it relates to.’

  ‘I am afraid I cannot help you there, Inspector,’ I replied a little awkwardly. ‘Mr Holmes has not seen fit to confide in me the full details of the case, except to stress its urgency.’

  ‘Then we had better set off at once,’ Davidson announced, much to my relief, for I had thought he was about to change his mind and withdraw his consent.

  Even so, he questioned me closely during the drive to Ivy House and I was hard put to it to conceal the unlawful actions Holmes and I had carried out.

  His catechism was cut short by our arrival at Ivy House where we found Holmes, still maintaining his role as ‘James Escott’, walking dispiritedly up and down the terrace.

  However, as soon as our gig had halted, he abandoned this disguise and, throwing back his shoulders, strode forward to meet us.

  ‘Now, Mr Holmes, about this evidence …’ Inspector Davidson began.

  But there was no time for him to complete his sentence. Holmes had taken charge of the situation. Sweeping us before him, like an eager sheepdog rounding up a reluctant flock, he hurried us up the steps and into the house, brushing aside a startled maid as we crossed the hall to Dr Ross Coombes’ study, the door of which he flung unceremoniously open.

  Dr Ross Coombes, who was seated at his desk, rose to his feet at our precipitate arrival, his worn features expressing consternation and, I thought, relief as well, strange though such a response might seem under the circumstances.

  However, it was Mrs Rawley who addressed us.

  She had been standing beside Dr Ross Coombes’ desk, bending down to show him an account book which lay open before them. As we burst into the room, she drew herself up to her full height, fixing us with a basilisk-like stare from those brilliant, black eyes of hers.

  ‘What is the meaning of the unwarranted intrusion?’ she demanded.

  Beside me, I felt Inspector Davidson shrink down inside his uniform at her indomitable presence and even I, who had encountered it before, began to wonder if Holmes was acting wisely in forcing this confrontation.

  Surely it would have been better to have gone about the whole affair more circumspectly?

  Holmes, however, seemed untouched by any such considerations. With a flourish, he drew from his pocket the bundle of papers which, a few hours earlier, he had removed from the bureau.

  ‘I believe these belong to you, Mrs Rawley?’ he announced. ‘Or would you prefer to be addressed by another of your marital titles, such as Mrs Edward Sinclair or Mrs Ha
rold Warburton?’

  My shock on hearing this last name was nothing compared with the effect Holmes’ remarks had upon the lady in question.

  She sprang forward like a tigress, claws extended, and would have raked Holmes’ face with her fingernails had he not seized her by the wrists and thrust her down into a chair where she sat glaring up at him, eyes glittering and teeth bared, every vestige of womanly decency and refinement stripped from her once-handsome features.

  In the struggle, her hair had become unpinned from its neat chignon and hung about her face in wild coils, putting me in mind of an illustration in a school textbook on Greek mythology of Medusa, whose head had been wreathed with snakes and whose mere glance could turn the most courageous man to stone.

  Seeing her seated there, I felt that same cold clutch of fear at my heart which, as a child, I had experienced when, turning the page, I had first come across that terrifying visage.

  As for the others, Dr Ross Coombes had sunk back into his chair and, with a groan, had covered his face with his hands, while Inspector Davidson had taken several steps backwards as if to distance himself from the dreadful transformation of the comely matron into this savage creature, twisting this way and that under Holmes’ grasp and screaming out at him that he was a thief and a liar.

  Only Holmes seemed unaffected. Still gripping her by the wrists and bending down his long frame so that his face was on a level with hers, he remarked in a low, civil tone, ‘Pray compose yourself, madam, or I shall be obliged to ask the inspector to put you into handcuffs and escort you from the room. I am sure you would not wish to make so undignified an exit in front of the servants.’

  Whether or not it was this threat or Holmes’ courteous manner which finally calmed her, I cannot tell. But by degrees, her hysterical outcries diminished until at last she fell silent and lay back in the chair, her eyes closed, an exhausted and broken woman.

  ‘And now,’ said Holmes, turning to Inspector Davidson and handing him the packet of papers, ‘I shall leave these documents with you to peruse at your leisure. In them, you will find evidence to charge Mrs Rawley with several counts of bigamy as well as blackmail and extortion. As for Dr Ross Coombes’ part in this sorry affair, it will be a matter for the official police to decide the extent of his guilt. On my own reading of the evidence, however, I should conclude that he was as much a victim of the conspiracy as one of its instigators.’

  At the sound of his own name, Dr Ross Coombes raised his head and, speaking for the first time, addressed my old friend in a voice which grew stronger and more authoritative with each word he uttered.

  ‘I do not know who you are, sir, except you are clearly not Mr James Escott who is suffering from melancholia. But whatever your true identity, I am grateful to you for destroying this monstrous web which for so long has held so many men and women in its thrall.

  ‘For my part, I shall plead guilty to any charges which are brought against me and I shall do my utmost to persuade Mrs Rawley to do the same.’

  Here, he broke off to look across at her, his glance full of a curious mixture of pity and contempt, before, withdrawing his gaze, he continued, ‘I am also willing to furnish the authorities with any additional information which might be necessary before the case comes to court. If in the meantime you require any immediate assistance, you have only to ask.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Coombes,’ Holmes said gravely, giving a small bow of acknowledgement. ‘I should like my client, Colonel Warburton, to be sent for so that he may be removed from your clinic without any further delay. My name, by the way, is Sherlock Holmes, and it is on the Colonel’s behalf that I have undertaken these enquiries.’

  I perceived from the doctor’s expression that Holmes’ name was not unknown to him, but he refrained from commenting on it and instead, rising to his feet, crossed to the fireplace and rang the bell to summon the maid.

  On her arrival, he gave her instructions discreetly through the half-open doorway before he returned to his desk, where he closed the ledger which he and Mrs Rawley had been consulting on our arrival and which he handed to Inspector Davidson.

  ‘You will no doubt wish to examine the financial records of the clinic,’ said he. ‘They are all there, including the legitimate as well as the illegal payments made by such so-called patients as Colonel Warburton, among others, for whose forced admission into my clinic I accept part responsibility.’

  I could restrain myself no longer. The excitement of the night’s activities, combined with lack of sleep and the rapid turn of events that morning, the full significance of which I had still not properly grasped, had left me utterly bewildered.

  ‘But why, Dr Coombes?’ I burst out. ‘Until your retirement, you were one of the most eminent neurologists in the whole country! How is it possible you were drawn into this monstrous scheme?’

  ‘You should ask the lady seated over there,’ he replied, quietly. ‘She can give you a full explanation.’

  But Mrs Rawley remained silent, her face averted and a pocket handkerchief pressed to her lips.

  ‘Then,’ said Dr Ross Coombes, after a long moment’s pause, ‘I see I am obliged to make a statement on my own account. It is a shameful story, gentlemen, and I take no pleasure in the telling of it. However, the facts are perfectly straightforward.

  ‘While I was still in practice in Harley Street, I took Mrs Rawley into my employ as housekeeper. She was efficient and seemed a discreet and utterly trustworthy person, a necessary quality as, shortly after Mrs Rawley’s arrival, I began an unwise relationship with one of my patients, a married lady, which, had it been made public, would have ruined us both.

  ‘I hasten to add that the association consisted of nothing more than an exchange of letters and very occasional private meetings in my consulting-room in out-of-business hours at which she confided in me her personal problems. She was unhappily married to a brute of a husband who nevertheless held a high position in society. I was a widower of many years’ standing. It was this mutual loneliness which brought us together, combined with a shared affection and regard. Nothing more.

  ‘However, our behaviour was extremely foolhardy, for it was open to misinterpretation. She could have faced the ignominy of divorce court proceedings, with the almost certain loss of her children, I the risk of being struck off the medical register for unprofessional conduct.

  ‘I thought I could trust Mrs Rawley implicitly. It was only when I spoke of selling up my practice and retiring to the country that she revealed herself in her true colours. She then threatened that, unless I agreed to her plans, she would expose my past relationship with my patient which, I should add, had long since been severed when the lady and her family had moved out of London. She had, Mrs Rawley informed me, taken copies of the letters the lady had written to me and which, most imprudently, I had kept in my desk as mementoes of our affectionate regard. She had, moreover, noted down a detailed record of our clandestine meetings and our conversations on which, it appeared, Mrs Rawley had eavesdropped at the door of the adjoining room. Unless I agreed to her proposals, she would send all this information to the lady’s husband.’

  ‘But you had nothing to fear once you had retired from medical practice,’ Holmes pointed out.

  ‘No, Mr Holmes, but there was still the lady’s reputation to consider as well as my own good name.’

  ‘And what were these proposals? I assume they were connected with your decision to open the clinic?’

  ‘Exactly so. Mrs Rawley said she had no intention of continuing in her subservient role as my housekeeper. I was to put the capital I would receive from the sale of the Harley Street practice into buying these premises and taking in private patients. As she had had some experience of nursing, she would act as matron on the basis of an equal partnership and would, moreover, assume responsibility for the finances and the day-to-day running of the clinic.’

  ‘So, in effect, she had virtual control?’ Holmes enquired.

  Dr Ross Coombes said nothing
, merely bowing his head in agreement.

  ‘At what point did Mrs Rawley suggest that such patients as Colonel Warburton should be admitted into the clinic?’ Holmes asked. ‘I assume the idea was hers, not yours?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Holmes, although to my undying shame I confess I failed to protest vigorously enough when she first mooted it. All I can say in my own defence is that, at the time, I was not fully aware of all the implications. The suggestion was made a few months after the clinic was opened when there were some unfilled vacancies. Mrs Rawley said that she knew of a former patient of hers, with whom she was still corresponding, who would benefit from a few weeks of treatment at Ivy House. I will not identify him, although you will find his name in the ledger and also no doubt among Mrs Rawley’s private papers. After he arrived, it soon became apparent to me that he was here under duress and, far from suffering ill-health, was a victim of extortion and blackmail. The fees were substantially raised for him and for the others like him, both men and women, who, over the next two years, were admitted to the clinic.’

  ‘Oh, I do not think Mrs Rawley’s motives were entirely mercenary,’ Holmes said softly, casting a glance at the lady who sat stony-faced, staring straight in front of her. ‘Have you never seen a cat playing with a mouse, Dr Coombes? Then you will have observed the pleasure the cat takes in tormenting its prey, first allowing it to run a little way off before drawing it back with its claws and tossing it up into the air. The money was important but it was the game which was paramount. To watch your victims suffer, sir! There lies the ultimate delight, the most exquisite gratification!’

  At this juncture, the door opened and Colonel Warburton entered the room. If we had wished for living proof of the dreadful misery inflicted by Mrs Rawley on her victims then Hal Warburton exemplified them all.